Endings and Dreams
by ncfan
Summary: "You hate me, don't you, Beatrice?" Spoilers for Ep. 8, manga-version.


This is coming from the manga-version of Ep. 8, which has just gotten this far. As such, spoilers abound. You have been warned.

I own nothing.

* * *

"_You hate me, don't you, Beatrice?"_

There has been enmity between them from the moment they met, years ago, long before Natsuhi actually knew who Beatrice was, or what she was to her. Beatrice might have known, even then, for the cool gleam that came over her glinting blue eyes every time they settled on Natsuhi's face.

From the moment they met, Beatrice pulled pranks, some harmless and others not so harmless, on the mistress of the Rokkenjima mansion, and Natsuhi never reacted well. Beatrice always laughed it off, saying it was just a joke and Natsuhi should _really _just lighten up, but her eyes weren't warm. They were cold, goading her to react, asking her exactly who she thought she was, exactly who she thought she was to shout at her and demand that she, as Kinzo's ward, behave a little more properly, like she was so much better.

It might have been in Natsuhi's mind—it might all have been in her mind—but when Beatrice speaks to her, under any circumstances, Natsuhi can hear a certain lack of respect in her voice. A chilly disrespect, at odds with her roguish grin and high-pitched giggle. Beatrice's eyes were mischievous and merry when meeting the gaze of anyone else, but once they turned on to Natsuhi, the mischief might have still been there, but the good cheer was gone. She looked heavy and cold, only looked at Natsuhi this way (or so it felt to her), and Natsuhi was left to wonder what she'd done to deserve it.

As for herself, Natsuhi took an immediate dislike to Beatrice the moment she laid eyes on her, little blonde girl in her school clothes. She couldn't have explained it to anyone, least of all herself. On first impression, Natsuhi had no reason to dislike Beatrice—her voice held an edge of disrespect, it was true, but she was also at the age when most children thought that adults were stupid and not to be trusted or liked. Beatrice was a pretty girl, well-spoken, intelligent. There was no real reason for Natsuhi to dislike her. But she did.

_Why do I hold such distaste in my heart for this child? She has done nothing to me, pranking or talking back, or disobeying me, that Jessica hasn't done at least once. I don't hate Jessica for these things, though she frustrates me. So why do I hate Beatrice? Is it because she's not of my flesh and blood? Or is it something else? What has she done? What have I done?_

They fell into a pattern. Beatrice would do anything she could to irritate Natsuhi or throw her off balance, whether it be the constant pranks or becoming fast friends with Jessica and proving something of a negative influence, and Natsuhi could only respond with a short temper and a hand to her forehead, trying to massage away her constant migraine headaches. Beatrice had—has—a privileged position in the Ushiromiya family, despite not being of the blood. _Even this child is honored above me. Even this child has more status and stability here than me. _Natsuhi could never really lay down the law beyond entreating her to behave with decorum.

Then, two years ago, Kinzo revealed exactly who Beatrice was. She was the granddaughter of the woman, the Golden Witch, who had given him his gold. She was the daughter of his lover.

And, Natsuhi discovered, Beatrice was the child who had once been given to her. The child who was to be her daughter, since she had thus far proved incapable of giving birth and doing the one thing she was brought to the Ushiromiya to do. The child she rejected, and pushed off a cliff along with the servant who held her.

Natsuhi stares at Beatrice, tall, golden, beautiful, dressed in a gown straight out of a fairytale, and looking at her with the coldest eyes imaginable. Not even sneering, as she might, as she often does at people she considers irritating or wasting her time. Just glaring with eyes made of ice and that cold, heavy, almost tired look on her face, yet again. She leans on the windowsill, framed by flickering blue light and raindrops, and Natsuhi has to look away.

She can't really look at Beatrice anymore without feeling like she wants to shrink into nothingness right on the spot.

Beatrice has every reason to hate her, Natsuhi has realized, has come to accept in her blood-stained, weary heart. How can she not hate her, when her blood is on Natsuhi's hands? How can she not hate her for taking away the life she had been offered, that with two parents, a sister, status, security, and family? How can she not hate the woman who was to be her mother for rejecting her?

_She was supposed to be my daughter. I was supposed to be her mother. Jessica would have been her sister, and my husband would have been her father. How she must have hated me. To her, I was the mother who rejected her. I was the mother who mutilated her body, nearly killed her. Every time she looked at me she was reminded of the life she could have had, if I had held one scrap of caring for her in my heart nineteen years ago._

_I must have become a symbol of everything she lost, and everything that was wrong with her life now._

_How could she do anything but hate me?_

And now, Natsuhi possesses a double memory (or triple, or quadruple, or more accurately countless consciousnesses all piling on top of each other) that tells her just how badly it could have gone in other worlds. No, even that's inaccurate. She possesses the memory of countless other worlds where it _did _go much more badly, knowing the truth of Beatrice in those other worlds, and knowing just how badly she mistreated her daughter in those other worlds.

_I cheated you out of everything. In frustration over being unable to have children of my own, I ensured that you would know the same pain, and worse. I gave you Hell in other worlds, in that other guise you wore, I've given you Hell here, and we both know it._

_Please just say that you hate me and get it over with._

-0-0-0-

"_I bullied you 'til I got tired."_

The one who conceived Beatrice in that original world, lost to time, lost to death, could not hate Natsuhi. The one who conceived Beatrice still had compassion in her heart, despite every bit of filth and despair the world threw at her, despite all her anger and self-loathing and grudges. Somehow, when she looked at Natsuhi, she could see past the woman's short temper and angry words to the put-upon, deeply wounded woman beneath the façade of "Demanding and domineering wife of the Ushiromiya." She who was otherwise so unforgiving and angry gave sympathy to the person in her life who deserved it least of all.

However, Beatrice is not the same as the one who created her. She is even more unforgiving than Kanon, the only one not created to be an ideal being somehow, the child closest to their creator's heart and thus closest to their creator's nature. Beatrice sees all, knows all, and holds everyone around her in judgment for their sins. She might have been created to be an ideal being, but that doesn't mean Beatrice can't be angry, can't feel vengeful, can't feel hate in her heart. Quite the opposite.

If the one who created her would not hate Natsuhi, Beatrice was more than happy to fill up the void. In this world, she was restricted to little things—pranking, disobedience, disrespect, encouraging Jessica in her desire to do things normal teenage girls do (Okay, maybe that wasn't borne _completely _from Beatrice's hostility towards Natsuhi. Beatrice does genuinely like Jessica, thinks she would have been an awesome little sister to have—sometimes—and Jessica's a great musician besides, wonderful on the guitar and at the microphone). It hasn't given Beatrice much satisfaction, but it's been something, to get Natsuhi's goat and watch her splutter, and know that Natsuhi couldn't do anything about it but shout and get worked up. After the mistreatment she and her 'siblings' endured at the hands of this woman in all those other worlds, it was some consolation.

In the other worlds, Beatrice was able to get retribution for her misfortune in more concrete ways. There was no joy in her heart to kill everyone around her, but maybe, just maybe, there was a small spark of satisfaction, whenever Beatrice watched Natsuhi die. Maybe she felt as though her rest would be a little more peaceful, knowing that Natsuhi died before her.

Then, came _End_.

It was the last game written solely by Beatrice, and she never meant for it to go so far. Yes, Natsuhi was supposed to look suspicious, but she was eventually going to end up exonerated. No one was meant to end the story believing that she was the killer. But the game was hijacked by Lady Lambdadelta and Lady Bernkastel, the latter of whom sent a piece nearly as cruel as her master into the game to make it more "amusing."

Though she was practically comatose during the running of the game, Beatrice knows what happened to Natsuhi when the Witches and their piece interfered. Even for her, it was too much. Even for her, it was too much to watch Natsuhi be degraded, beaten, bloodied, bruised. Too much to have her pride, dignity, heart and soul ripped from her chest and torn into little pieces, and then put on display for the amusement of spectator Witches. Too much to see the ever-faithful wife accused of adultery with her own father-in-law—Beatrice may not like Natsuhi but she _knows_ Natsuhi; she would never sink so low as to accuse Natsuhi of something so transparently false. Too much to see the woman slandered, abused, completely and utterly broken.

Too much to watch her guts ripped out and read to the world.

Beatrice was never about that. She was all in favor of the preservation of illusions; she never would have exposed Natsuhi in such a way, no matter how much she disliked and disdained the woman. The worst Beatrice will do to someone is kill them; she won't expose the ugly truth—or falsehoods—of them to an applauding crowd beforehand, just for the approval of her audience.

She'd had dreams of the day that would come, when Natsuhi would be forced to acknowledge her as the child she'd rejected nineteen years ago, but it made her sick to watch what happened to Natsuhi in that game.

And there's something else from that game that disrupts all of Beatrice's firmly held beliefs.

For all their interference, neither Lambdadelta nor Bernkastel could make pieces act out of character—Lambdadelta probably wouldn't even try as a matter of pride. In that game, the piece version of herself, piece-Beatrice, aided Natsuhi. Piece-Beatrice was Natsuhi's mischievous, supportive friend and ally.

_So I am capable of that? I am capable of supporting Natsuhi, rather than tormenting her? I'm capable of liking her?_

_So what am I, then? Am I Natsuhi's eternal foe, bent on revenge and retribution? Am I a wayward daughter, giving her mother a hard time because they've had some sort of argument that spun out of control? Am I both, or neither? What am I? This is ridiculous; what am I?_

Seriously, what is she?

"_I'd never forget that. I killed someone and ruined your life. I'll carry that cross for the rest of my life."_

Beatrice nearly sighs as she looks at Natsuhi, her eyes roiling, shoulders sagging and face contorted as though she's ready to cry. How many times has she seen Natsuhi burst into tears over some slight, over some slip, intentional or accidental, that reveals that no matter how long she lives here, no matter how much she labors and sublimates her original identity (_I have some experience with that_), she will always be an outsider here? That she will never be considered anything but a hanger-on, that her own husband won't trust her enough to listen to her own advice, no matter how often she's proven right?

How often has Beatrice seen Natsuhi weep over her, from her hiding places, once her mother found out the truth about her? Her rage and frustration had long since turned to horror at herself, and once she realized that her sin was still living, and stood before her every day of her life, she could do naught but torment herself.

_All I have to do is strip and look down, and I can see the words of her rejection etched into my flesh, still so starkly visible after all these years. I see what her hands wrought every time I change my clothes or go to take a bath. I see that she didn't accept me, every time._

But still, Natsuhi punishes herself enough. Enough so that maybe Beatrice doesn't need to punish her too.

_And I've always wanted a mother. I've wanted it so badly, I wanted so badly for you to acknowledge me…_

"_Then that cross will fill the role of tormenting you from now on. It won't be me anymore."_

Beatrice nearly laughs at the gaping look of shock on Natsuhi's tear-stained face.

-0-0-0-

They're in the closet, hiding from Eva and Ange. Natsuhi is drawn from her worrying to feel Beatrice curl up into her (_"You have a nice smell," she murmurs, almost dreamily, but mostly tiredly_), and rest her head on her chest. Once she's done nearly jumping out of her skin in shock, she hears the words the girl says.

"_Sorry. I never met my own mother." _Her eyes are half-closed, far away, sadder and younger and more vulnerable than any face she's ever put forth before Natsuhi before. _"So, only for now, just a bit more, thank you for regretting what happened to me… Mother."_

Natsuhi smoothes her hand over Beatrice's soft hair, truly seeing her long-lost child in the face she wears for the first time. Beatrice feels her hand, feels her warmth, and has the acceptance and acknowledgement she has always craved, for the first time.

Just if only for a little while, here in the dark, it's enough for the rest of eternity.


End file.
